I'll still love you, even when you'r old and rusty
by Marlowe97
Summary: Sometimes, your loved ones hurt you, and you can't change a damn thing...


Disclaimer: Nope, Nothing's mine. Sad, but true.

Summary: Dean gets his fingers squished by his one-and-only girl.

Warnings: Swearing.

This was written - once again - for a Dean-focused comment-fic meme on LJ.

* * *

It hurt.

Hurthurthurthurt, like nobody's business. It __ hurt when the hood slammed down on his fingers, and the fact that he could hear the bones break didn't really make it better. The first seconds weren't so bad. Not bad at all, really, because he couldn't feel anything. Shock, adrenaline. Awesome stuff!

But the moment vanished, like those moments tend to do, and Dean screwed his eyes shut and bit into his left hand. Hard. He would be damned if he let anyone notice haw fucking much this hurt. Apart from Sam, who kinda would have to know, since he couldn't bring himself to open the hood, imagining three little, wiggly fingers lying inside the car, blood pouring out of his joints and making the engine all filthy and sticky. No, he wouldn't be able to do it. Better Sam got the shock of his life. Maybe it wasn't so bad?

Trying for a little, teeny-tiny motion with his index-finger confirmed his suspicion that yes, it was exactly that bad. Ok, well, maybe not severed-bad, because there was no way that not-there-anymore fingers could hurt so fucking much.

"Sam"

"Hmm?"

"Uhm… could you maybe…"

"Need help?"

Well, duh. Yes, yes he kinda needed someone to lift the hood from his mangled hand, thank you. And it wouldn't hurt if Sam would maybe raise his eyes from his laptop and look over to his brother, who was in fucking agony, not even three feet away, standing in the midday-sun on the side of a dusty road, covered in grime, sweat, oil and oh, did he mention his mangled fingers?

"uh… yeah?"

"Second."

Sure, Sam. Take your time. I'll just stand here and…

"Uhm, could you maybe hurry a little? Like… now? Sam?"

Instinct kicks in fast with Winchesters. Or, well, most days, and with most Winchesters. But Sam was up and next to him the split-second Dean's tone registered, the precious laptop kicked into the dust, sitting forgotten in the dry grass.

"What is it, where are you hurt? Lemme see!", Sam demanded, grabbing his shoulders and trying to turn Dean around to face him.

"NO! Don't… don't touch me yet" Dean gritted through clenched teeth. "Just… open the hood?"

Sam went pale when he noticed what had happened, gently trying to lift it but the heavy, solid part wouldn't budge.

"Uhm, the latch locked."

Dean swallowed.

"Well? What are you waiting for? OPEN it!" he hissed, a bit pissed about Sam still standing there.

"Yes, of course"

The car moved when Sam sat on the seat, sadly something that couldn't be avoided when you want to open the hood. Chevy probably never even thought about how much it would HURT when you jerk the car with your fingers stuck in the hood. Dean was sure there could be money in it, if he could find a lawyer who'd take the case.

It was a relief when the latch unlocked. Dean could feel the weight lift a little – sadly, it also enabled his blood to flood his crushed fingers and that… yeah, right _hurt_. Sam picked up the hood and Dean collapsed on the sandy ground, not able to stand upright anymore, cradling his hand and looking everywhere but at the source of the white-hot pain shooting up his arm and into his elbows, right behind his eys and into his brain.

"Lemme see"

"Don't touch me!" Sam hovered.

Yeah, Dean knew he was a bitch. But that was what he needed when he was seriously hurting. Distance. Time to get a grip on his senses, on the overload of sensory impressions. And Sam knew that. And he kept his distance, whenever possible.

After a minute – or less, who bothered with counting in times like these – Dean swallowed, took a shaky breath, searched and found his brother's eyes and nodded. Sam crouched down next to him, took his wrist and cautiously peeled his cramped left hand away from his right. If he noticed Dean's breath going quicker, he never commented on it.

"Hm. I think we should get this looked at."

"Ya think, Sammy?" Sarcasm was a great way for dealing with pain. No matter what kind of pain. Sam didn't do it, Dad'd never done it. Dean was seemingly the only Winchester who hid his emotions in biting comments, sharp and often painful. Oh, Sam could wield a wicked tongue, Dad could insult you with an eyebrow. But sarcasm was all Dean. Didn't matter, Sam was fluent in Dean-speak for "ouch".

"By a professional. Meaning a doctor. With and x-ray" Sam clarified before Dean could crack a joke about 'professionals' and their merits. But honestly, he didn't have anything against someone with actual knowledge on fingers looking at his hand.

"Fine. You drive" As if there ever was another option.

* * *

"Stop moving your fingers, Dean"

"It itches. And I wasn't moving them!"

"Dean… They said if you move them too much, you could make it worse"

"How could it get worse? I have three broken fingers, and a cracked thump. I can't even cut the food, can't write, can't clean the weapons. Can't drive – nothing!"

"Since when do you cut burgers? Or write? And stop scratching! It's only for two weeks, then you can use the thump again. You were lucky."

"Yeah, yeah.'Clean break', blablah, no nerve-damage, blablah. I know. I heard them." Dean twisted on the bed, for the hundredth time. These pain-killers made him itchy and irritable to no end. "Still sucks" he added in a silent whine, hoping Sam wouldn't hear how pathetic he sounded, or if he did, he'd do something nice for him. Not that he hadn't done it already. But you can't ever have enough nice stuff done to you. At least that was what Dean figured. Some ice-cream, maybe? Or… pie?

"Ok. If you promise me that you'll keep that hand still, I'll go and get you some pie."

Huh? Did he speak that loud? Or was Sam's psychic-stuff even creepier than it had been already?

"Dean, I've known you my entire life. I know how you tick. Don't need to be Missouri to know what you're thinking."

"Yeah? What am I thinking now, Superbrain?"

"Apple. Or, if they don't have it, something with almond."

Dean was still staring at the space Sam had been when the door closed and the Impala rumbled away from the motel with a smiling, smug Sam. He hoped Sasquatch remembered that he loved cherry just as much as almond, and nearly as much as apple.

This was torture. Plain and simple. Sitting in a diner, having your kid-brother cutting up your steak, pouring gravy over his fries? Embarrassing as hell. The waitresses kept snickering behind their hands, and even their pitying looks didn't make up for that. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and that would be even worse. Dean Winchester hadn't blushed since the day his swimming instructor had seen him getting an instant hard-on when she stepped out if the water in her swim-suit. Not that he had been the only one, because damn, that woman had been hot. Curves and legs like an antelope, with smooth, dark chocolate-brown skin, long neck and her hair under that cap … She still starred in some of Dean's wetter dreams, even thirteen years later.

"Dean. Eat."

"Eat, Dean…" he snarked back. Yeah, not really manly, but if Sam treated him like a kid, he could behave like one. Well, or not. The puppy-eyes of doom prevented too harsh treatment of his younger brother. After all, Sam had been patient and helpful all the way. It wasn't his fault that that was exactly what drove Dean nuts. That, and the fact that until he got the cast off from the thump, he was relying on that help. He couldn't even button his pants, for fucks sake!

Good thing he knew how to wipe his ass with his left hand, having learned from the time he had had that cast on his arm.

But that had been in highschool, and only the wrist, not his fingers. Also, not needing to do homework had made it nearly worth it.

But yeah, there was a plan. The next weeks, he would learn to use his left hand as much as possible. It never hurt to be ambidextrous (yes, he knew that word!). At least he would be able to shoot a gun – even if not a shotgun. Dad had made sure that his kids knew how to fight with both hands. Sadly, he never bothered to enforce the use of the left hand in day-to-day living. Dean would change that. He had all the time in the world for it anyway.

* * *

After three weeks of bitching, moaning, whining and complaining, Sam was relieved when they finally took off the big cast from Dean's hand and left him with a lighter one, actually encouraging him to use his fingers as often as possible, even if it hurt. Which they shouldn't have told is brother, but Sam was sure they had meant well. Who outside his family knew that Dean didn't really do the whole pain-threshold, like normal people did.

He didn't plan on telling, but Sam was rather impressed by how much Dean had been able to figure out with his left hand. He'd even managed to button his jeans and tie his boots, and that was no easy feat.

Still, all those little victories hadn't stopped Dean from complaining every time he was bothered by the cast, or when it itched. Also, the slightly worried look that Sam had caught Dean sporting while he'd examined his blue-tinged, swollen and sausage-like fingers had been a tell-tale sign that his brother wasn't over the whole incident, and he would bitch as long as he could.

In a way, it was comforting. Dean never bothered to whine about serious damage, so no matter how much he was irritated about the lack of progress, the breaks didn't hurt much anymore. Dean always got quiet in pain. And man, Sam himself had added some new nightmares on his plate after looking at those mangled, bloody things that had been his brother's fingers, fresh from out under the hood. And watching the doctor in the ER sewing the skin back together – Dean had insisted that he'd watch, so nobody removed them without his consent, while the pain-killers made him float in dreamland – hadn't really made anything better.

So, yeah. Sam was glad that everything turned out to be fine, that Dean bitched and proved that he was going to be ok.

Now, if he could only figure out why the damn car wouldn't start right, why it stuttered every few miles, even with the tank full of gas. Sam had even gone so far as to look under the hood, just confirming that yes, this seemed to be an engine, and yes, it seemed to be heavy. It just… well, it did stuff that it had never done before, and Sam was pissed at it, no matter how immature it was to be pissed at an inanimate object.

But really, how could he not be? Not only had it nearly chopped of Dean's fingers, putting him through so much pain that even his stoic ass of a brother had taken heavy-duty painkillers for six days without complaining, no, now this thing also threw a hissy-fit.

Sighing loudly, Sam turned away from the object of his anger. The car wasn't a sentient being, wasting your anger on it wouldn't help in any way. Nothing to do but tell Dean. Who would be blaming Sam, no doubt. Accepting the inevitable, Sam opened the door and stepped into the room, bringing the takeaway.

"Dean, the car …", he started, eyes firmly on the chicken Kung Pao on the table.

"Hum?" Sam looked up at the distracted sound. Dean was trying to eat with chopsticks. He didn't even manage that correctly with his right hand, why he'd bother trying it with his left was beyond Sam.

"Why are you… What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm trying to knit a sweater."

"Oh, good. Because that is what it looks like, exactly."

"Hardy har har. What about my car?"

"The Impala is… acting up" Man, that sounded wrong. On so many levels. But it got Dean's attention.

"Did you put diesel in her again? Sam, if you…"

"NO!" He'd never do that again, never get rid of that suspicion either. And yeah, he kinda felt guilty for it still, even years after the deed. It hadn't been intentional, and he'd never forget his brother close to tears because his car nearly had to have a new engine. Sam'd paid for that mistake, and by the look of it, wasn't done paying yet.

"No, it just… dunno. It just won't start right, stuttering, like there is no fuel. But there is. And it always gets better, and then it starts again. I have no clue what that might be."

"Huh" Dean chewed absentmindedly, not even noticing how he wielded the chopsticks like a professional, left-handed Chinese. Dean was like that, sometimes.

They didn't speak much after that, and when they finished, Sam sat down with the laptop, trying to pick the sand out of the keys with a tiny cleaning-kit. When he looked up, Dean had changed into his car-repair-shirt and jeans. Curious, he followed and stood in the doorway, cringing a little when Dean popped the hood. That sound would never be innocent again for him.

After some rummaging in the engine, Dean looked up, scratched his hair with his filthy hand. Left hand, luckily.

"Huh. Baby, what's the matter with you? I can't find anything" Sam watched as his brother slowly, lovingly, ran his hand over the black frame, stroking the steel, following its lines to the roof, stroking there too. It was pretty obvious that he didn't see Sam. He was crooning, for God's sake!

"You know it wasn't your fault, right? Hm? You're my best girl, always will be. I'll give you a fine wash, the minute I get rid of this damn cast. Maybe even the wheels, huh? Whaddaya say?..."

Sam left. On one hand, it felt like intruding, like lurking behind a curtain and watching while Dean was with a real girl – not that he had done that since Betty Ann Berlios, in Omaha, 1998. He was still not over the sight of his brother's ass between her legs, but those legs… well.

On the other hand, it was just really ridiculous. It was a CAR. And Dean was behaving like a tomcat preening around a female feline in heat. Seriously, he should have let them check his head too. Maybe the hood had damaged Dean's brain as well as his hand.

* * *

When Dean came back in, Sam grinned at him.

"Well? Did you two have a good time?"

"Shut up, Sam. She just needs some tender words and kindness. You've probably been giving her the bitch-face the whole time; no wonder she wouldn't run smooth. Can't treat her like that."

"Yeah, right" Sam rolled his eyes. See? He had known that it would end up being his fault. "Well, miracle man. We'll see tomorrow how that turned out."

Sam would never admit that he even considered believing in his brothers car-whispering abilities. He was half-sure that Dean had fixed something after Sam had gone back in, only pretending to just sweet-talk a car. But half of him was pretty near convinced that if someone was able to charm steel, it would be Dean.

Whatever the reason, the Impala ran smoothly for over thousand miles. The only major time-out was when Dean crashed her into a tree and they had to replace a fender, or whatever.

But that's another story.

~end~


End file.
